Freaks Under Fire (2 page)

Her torch beam limned chalk-white, almost skeletal features, haloed with a tangle of limp dark curls. It—the cyborg—lay on its side, stick-thin limbs curled tight against its torso.

She swallowed the bile that had surged up her throat and flicked the flashlight beam over that gaunt face again, both hoping for and dreading a response.

Nothing. Not even the merest twitch of an eyelid.

Her hand shook as she reached out to check for a pulse. And the instant she pressed the cyborg’s carotid artery, those paper-thin eyelids opened.

Whoa
. She had never seen such incredibly blue eyes—eyes that sucked her in and ripped through her defenses.

Horror warred with a wave of hot fury that stained her vision a bloody red… and all possibility of professional detachment died. The hollow emptiness she’d endured for so long it was now a part of her filled with steely resolve, because she knew without a doubt that Beta wasn’t like Caine’s current pet. And there was no longer an “it” lying at her feet—some inhuman “thing” to be “dealt with”. There was only a defenseless, disabled
child
.

Sweet God Almighty. Beta was conscious and sentient and they’d zipped her into a bag, tossed her in a corner, and left her there to waste away, helpless, trapped in some nightmarish half-life. What they’d done to her…. It was unimaginably cruel. And Beta had suffered. Terribly.

Who were the inhuman monsters here?

Speaking the command that would shut this miraculous but flawed creation down, reducing this child to a lifeless machine, might be construed a mercy. But in this moment,
right now
, it smacked of murder….

And this time she didn’t have it in her to commit murder.

She stroked the cyborg’s hair. “Well, Beta, looks like it’s just you and me, and we’re up shit-creek without a paddle because that bastard Caine is gonna pin big-ass targets on both our backs.”

Her soft bark of derisive laughter bounced off the walls. And when the echoes of it had faded, she started making plans.

The cab driver performed an inept three-point turn and zoomed off with a wince-inducing screech of tires, leaving Sam Ross in Nowheresville. The jury of his peers was still out as to whether this was a good career move, but right now, as the sky blushed rosy pink with the birth of a new day, and some nearby feathered denizen warbled a cheery welcome, Sam told himself he didn’t give a crap what his colleagues thought of his decision. No one had said respite care was going to be easy and he’d gone into it with eyes wide open. But lately, the chinks in his armor had become gaping holes and he’d not been able to maintain the distance he felt he needed to perform his job. He was burned out.

Bottom line? When you glanced at yourself in the shaving mirror each morning and barely recognized the hollow-eyed stranger staring back at you, it was time for a change of pace.

He hoisted his pack onto his shoulder, inhaling crisp country air deep into his lungs, holding it until tiny glowing sparks zinged through his headspace. And, as he exhaled, he cast off the last of his doubts. He’d been right to make this change—he felt it in his gut and his heart and his soul.

Coarse seal shifted beneath his feet as he approached the gate barring the cobbled entranceway. He pressed the buzzer on the speaker and leaned in to announce his arrival. “Samuel Ross.”

As he straightened, a flash caught his eye. A tiny security camera, barely noticeable amid the thick foliage poking through the gaps in the fence bordering the property. Which drew his attention to the fence itself, its sturdy metal palings colored a shade so close to the deep greens of the hedge plantings, he hadn’t even noticed a fence until now.

The gates
shooshed
smoothly, almost noiselessly, apart.

Disquiet feathered Sam’s spine but damned if he’d turn back now. He walked briskly through the gates… and fought the impulse to glance over his shoulder as they shut behind him. It was hardly unusual for an affluent property-owner living in relative isolation to install some stringent security measures, right?

Rolling the tension from his shoulders, he marched up the meandering pathway, determinedly admiring the freshly mown grass and bright, cheery flowerbeds with their neatly clipped borders. He passed two bent figures, diligently plying secateurs to a bed of standard rose bushes. Fulltime gardeners, perhaps? Not surprising given the extent of these grounds. Right now, he could be forgiven for imagining he was taking a stroll through carefully maintained public gardens. Fingers crossed the house wasn’t some drafty old mansion full of dusty antiques, with generations of stern ancestors glaring down their noses at him from the walls. Still, given the salary he’d been offered, he could put up with small inconveniences like OTT security measures, clanking plumbing and uninviting décor.

Besides, money hadn’t been his primary motive for accepting this position—though it’d certainly helped when he’d weighed the pros and cons. This placement was long-term. His patient was young and healthy—physically at least. And if her mental state left a lot to be desired, well, he could deal with that. So far as he’d been able to ascertain she wasn’t suffering. And for Sam, that was pretty much a win any way he looked at it.

He blinked as he caught sight of the house.

Nice
. More than nice, in fact. Another win, for sure. The modest two-story, built of cream brick with a red tiled roof, was almost eclipsed by the addition of a huge conservatory. Bi-folding doors had been pushed back to take advantage of the balmy temperatures, revealing a substantial swimming pool. An undercover pool—heated, too, at a guess. With a bit of luck he could wangle permission to use it on his days off.

Sam’s gaze lingered on what he guessed was the garage. He’d bet his next paycheck it housed some seriously sweet cars. But as much as curiosity pricked him to be nosy and peer through the side windows, he ignored the impulse and continued up the path to the front door. There were bound to be cameras secreted here, too, their feeds manned by someone noting his every move, and it wasn’t a good look to be caught nosing around on his first day.

He was reaching for the plain brass doorknocker when the door was yanked open, leaving him confronting a tall woman with short-cropped white hair and cold gray eyes. She wore light, flowing black pants, a loose black tunic, and black sneakers. Sam estimated her age as anywhere between forty and fifty—a polar opposite to the housekeeper-cum-guardian who’d interviewed him a month ago, and professed herself delighted to offer him the position. That woman, one Sally Bridges, had been short and plump, with dimples and a kind smile. She’d worn a floral dress, a pink cardigan and matching pink low-heeled pumps. She’d chatted away, immediately putting him at ease. She’d appeared friendly and harmless, the kind of woman who would sit you down in the kitchen with a plate of fresh-baked cookies and a glass of milk.

This
woman? She was all lean muscle and coiled strength. She possessed the sort of watchful stillness Sam recognized from a stint training with a martial arts expert—the kind that told you here was a person who could explode into motion and take you down before you could blink. His spidey-senses warned him to proceed with caution. Apparently this job was not going to be as straightforward as it had appeared.

He met her cool, assessing gaze with his best bland expression, and waited for her to make the first move.

One slash of an eyebrow arched. “Mr. Ross, I presume.”

She didn’t offer her hand, so Sam responded with a curt nod.

The other eyebrow joined the first before returning to neutral. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. Ross, I’ll show you to your quarters.” She turned her back on him and strode away, obviously expecting him to follow like a good little lapdog.

Sam figured he might as well start as he meant to go on. “It’s Sam, not Mr. Ross,” he called after her. “And getting settled in can wait. Right now I’d prefer you introduce me to Miss Smith.”

She halted and pivoted, the full force of that steely gaze boring into him.

A lesser man would have backed down, stuttered an apology. But Sam was made of sterner stuff. “Please,” he added, keeping his tone firm and to-the-point, while making it obvious the effort at politeness was a token afterthought.

Her lips quirked ever so briefly, and as she strode toward him she stuck out a hand. “Marguerite Danvers.”

Sam noted the slightest nostril-flare accompanying that announcement, and hazarded a guess she was less than thrilled to be named after a flower—a fact he only knew because marguerite daisies had been his grandma’s favorite bloom.

“You can call me Marg.” Although she pronounced it with a soft “g” her tone was anything
but
soft, suggesting dire consequences if he dared call her Marguerite.

Sam managed not to wince when she gripped his hand so tightly it felt as though his bones were grinding together.

She released his hand and, when he manfully showed no inclination to flex his crushed digits, her gray eyes sparkled with amusement. She’d won the dominance challenge, and they both knew it, but he’d also earned a modicum of her respect. “You and I are going to get along just fine, Sam. Let’s go check what Bea’s up to.”

Sam frowned, mentally scanning his employment documentation, but could only recall his patient referred to as “Miss B. Smith.” Nor could he recall Mrs. Bridges mentioning the girl’s first name. He took a punt. “Bea as in… Beatrice?”

“Yes.” Marg’s lips compressed to a grim line. “Though it might interest you to know that Bea’s previous guardians referred to her as ‘Beta’.”

Beta
. The second letter of the Greek alphabet.

Sam blanched, rocking back on his heels as the full import of Marg’s explanation smacked him upside the head. They hadn’t believed this girl deserved a name—only a designation, like she was some freaking sub-human lab-rat instead of a human being. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Marg must have had exceptional hearing for she folded her arms over her chest and gave him some truly superb cold hard bitch that was at odds with her conversational tone as she said, “When Sally came on board, she decided on the name Beatrice. Sally adores the English royals,” she added by way of explanation. Followed by a little shake of her head and an eye-roll, as if to convey fond exasperation, but those gray eyes were still cold and hard and watchful as she observed his reactions. “Most of us think that’s a bit of a mouthful, though, and shorten it to Bea.”

Sam swallowed the myriad questions clamoring in his head and agreed. “Bea, it is, then.”

Marg rewarded his ready acceptance and disinclination to pry with one of her clipped nods, and beckoned him to follow.

Sam trailed her through to what turned out to be a spacious kitchen dominated by a huge, solid wood table that could have sprung fully formed from the pages of Country Living.

None other than Sally Bridges, resplendent in be-ruffled floral apron, stood at the counter, kneading bread dough. She glanced up as Marg and Sam entered, and greeted them with a smile. “Oh good, you’re here. How do you like your eggs, Samuel?”

“Please, call me Sam,” he said, his gaze sweeping the room. “And I like my eggs however you care to cook ’em. Thank you for the offer of breakfast, by the way. I’m starving.”

He shucked his pack and leaned it against the wall. Ignoring the glances Sally and Marg were shooting at each other, he visually assessed the girl seated in the wheelchair at head of the table.

Her head had tilted to one side until her chin almost rested on her collarbone. Her shiny mane of naturally curly hair hung over one shoulder in a loose, fat braid. Her complexion was clear and smooth, pale but healthy-looking. Good muscle-tone—no atrophied muscles that he could detect beneath the shapeless gray sweatpants and loose black long-sleeved tee she wore. Surprisingly, there were no support straps to prevent her slipping out of the wheelchair. A good sign. Likewise that neither her hands, which lay relaxed atop her thighs, nor the sneaker-clad feet resting on the footrest of the wheelchair, were twisted—

His gut swooped. He’d been told Bea was in a persistent vegetative state. PVS patients were awake but unaware of what was happening around them. Some could open their eyes, even track objects. Others could move their limbs slightly, though such movements were reflexes rather than reactions to external stimuli. Bea’s eyes were closed—nothing unusual in that; PVS patients had regular sleep-wake cycles. But instinct prompted him to approach her—the same visceral instinct that insisted he drop whatever he happened to be doing to check on a patient he’d left only moments before, because he knew something was wrong.

He needed to see her eyes—to gaze into them, gauge what it was about her that disturbed him. He strode forward, peripherally aware that Marg and Sally had stilled and were watching him like hawks.

He dropped to his haunches before Bea and took her hands. “Hi, Bea. My name’s Sam.”

Save for the slow, even rise and fall of her chest, there was no response.

In the back of his mind, he noted her hands were cooler than he’d expected given the sun pouring in the windows and the warmth of the room. “Bea,” he said, firmly and clearly. “I need you to wake up now.”

Nothing.

“Open your eyes, Bea.”

He waited. Still nothing—not that he’d expected any response to his command… had he?

He mentally shook himself, trying to shrug off a sense of foreboding so powerful that the fine hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention. He reached up, and with the pad of his forefinger, gently pushed up her left eyelid…. And was confronted by an orb of breath-stealing, far-too-intense-to-be-natural blue.

He inhaled sharply. “Whoa.” That was… unexpected.

There was a muffled protest—from Sally Bridges, at a guess—that was quickly shushed.

Sam ignored his audience of two. Bea’s left eyelid had remained open after he’d removed his fingertip. Interesting.

He carefully opened her right eyelid and eased his hand back.

Ditto with the right eyelid.

He backed off. “Well done, Bea,” he said, smiling to convey approval, even though all the approval and encouragement in the world wouldn’t make an iota of difference to a PVS patient like Bea. And then, as he gazed into those inhumanly blue eyes, the smile froze on his face.